


Just Asking

by toyhto



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dancing, Flirting, M/M, Post-Canon, sharing a flat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 20:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20031847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: In which Eames finds out Arthur’s bad at flirting and tries to teach him. Turns out Arthur can, in some cases, flirt very effectively.





	Just Asking

**Author's Note:**

> So, I rewatched a few episodes of Downton Abbey and this happened. This has barely anything to do with Downton Abbey, though. Mostly, this is about awkward attempts at flirting.
> 
> Betaed by [deinvati](http://https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati), thank you!!

  
“What’re you watching?”  
  
Arthur glances at Eames and then goes back to staring at his laptop. “Nothing.”  
  
Eames bites his lip. It’s none of his goddamn business, anyway. But the thing is, they’ve been staying in Lisbon for two weeks now, sharing an apartment and preparing for a job which really shouldn’t be that complicated. Eames is bored. And Arthur’s watching something on his laptop all the time. Well, obviously Arthur doesn’t need to tell Eames what it is, they aren’t bloody boyfriends or anything, they’re barely friends. But the fact that Arthur is doing something constantly and Eames doesn’t know what exactly it is… that’s just intolerable.  
  
“Is it porn?” he asks, leaning his elbows against the kitchen counter and staring at Arthur, who’s sitting in the dark green armchair near the open window, the laptop on his right knee. “Because I get it, if you are. No need to be shy about it.”  
  
Arthur glances at him. “Why would I watch porn when you’re standing right there?”  
  
Eames can’t help grinning. “Why, indeed?”  
  
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Arthur says. Maybe he’s a little flushed now or maybe it’s just the heat. “Mind your own business.”  
  
“I do, I do,” Eames says, taking ice cream from the freezer. “You want some ice cream? We have chocolate.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Well, it’s not porn what Arthur’s watching, then. Eames wasn’t really expecting it to be. He’s sure he knows Arthur well enough to be able to tell that Arthur’s the kind of person who’d make sure he’s alone and then lock himself in the bathroom anyway, before he could even think about taking a peep at a porn site. It’d be fun to figure out what kind of porn Arthur likes to watch, though. Maybe he should try that. It should help him with the boredom.  
  
He brings Arthur ice cream, and when Arthur takes it, he snatches the laptop. It’s almost too easy. Arthur’s clearly starting to trust him. Then Arthur grabs his wrist, takes the laptop back and manages not to drop ice cream. It’s very impressive, but Arthur’s a bit late.  
  
“Downton Abbey?”  
  
Arthur shakes his head and then takes a deep breath. “It’s not your fucking business, Eames.”  
  
“Downton Abbey,” Eames says, retreating to the kitchen. He leans his back against the fridge and watches Arthur trying not to appear slightly embarrassed. “That’s what you’ve been watching. I never thought all those dresses were your thing.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says with a warning in his voice, but his ears are turning pink.  
  
“And horses and old houses,” Eames says, “and, I don’t know, a good old British accent. I get why you like it, but if you remember, I can do that for you. I can say anything you like with that accent. I can say anything you like, _ sir. _” Well, then, that sounded stupid. He should maybe ask if Arthur wants more ice cream. Maybe they could watch Downton Abbey together. He’s bored enough to try that.  
  
Then he realises Arthur’s posture is quite stiff.  
  
“Darling?”  
  
“I just like the show,” Arthur says, not looking at him. He seems tense, but not in his usual way, which is very familiar to Eames.  
  
Eames swallows. It could be that he’s just imagining things. But it’s worth a try. And bloody hell how angry Arthur will be if Eames manages to hit the nerve, oh, that would be glorious. “Darling, do you like, and I mean _ really like _, I don’t know, dresses?”  
  
Arthur laughs.  
  
“Horses, then? Old houses?”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, shifting in the armchair, and now he looks like a man who’s trying very hard to relax. It’s almost charming. Eames moves closer to him. “Don’t be an idiot, Eames,” Arthur says in a voice that suggests he doesn’t have high hopes.  
  
“Is it the accent, then?” Eames says, stopping right next to Arthur’s armchair. It’s nice to see how Arthur’s struggling not to run away. “Are you going to eat that ice cream?”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says. He’s blushing and Eames is certain he knows it.  
  
Okay. One more try, and then he’ll let Arthur eat his ice cream in peace. Too bad that it’s not the accent, though. “Are you going to eat that ice cream, sir?”  
  
Arthur swallows.  
  
_Oh.  
  
_“Really?” Eames says, crouching down on the floor so close to Arthur that Arthur could easily slap him in the face. He kind of thinks Arthur won’t, though. “That’s it? _ Sir? _ That’s why you’re watching the show?”  
  
Arthur shakes his head. “That’s stupid. They aren’t even… they don’t… fucking _ hell, _Eames.”  
  
“Okay,” Eames says, “okay. We all have our little oddities that turn us on. Mine are… but I’m not going to tell you, am I? Just eat your ice cream, sir.”  
  
“You’re…” Arthur says, but doesn’t finish it.  
  
“Fine, then,” Eames says. He’s finished his own ice cream already. He takes Arthur’s and when Arthur doesn’t, sadly, complain, he goes back to the kitchen and sits down at the table to eat it. Arthur only stares at the screen of the laptop and it takes some time before his blush begins to fade away. And isn’t that interesting, really, that Arthur looks cute when he’s embarrassed.

**

“Good morning, sir,” Eames says the next morning, when Arthur crawls out of his bedroom and aims for the bathroom.  
  
“Shut the fuck up,” Arthur says, not unkindly.  
  
“Just trying to be helpful,” Eames says, “in case you’re going to take your time in there.”  
  
Arthur glares at him and disappears into the bathroom. Soon the water starts running. Eames gets back to eating his breakfast and doesn’t wonder if Arthur’s perhaps having a wank in there, Eames’ voice still ringing in his ears. _ Sir. _ Well, he’s always known Arthur likes to boss people around, even if he tries to be subtle about it. It’s not so surprising that Arthur might like that in bed, too.  
  
Eames probably shouldn’t be wondering what Arthur likes in bed. They’re here for a job. He likes Arthur. There’s no reason to mess either of those things up only because he’s a bit bored. All they’ve got to do at this point is to gather information about the mark and that’s driving him crazy, but not crazy enough to actually hit on Arthur.  
  
When Arthur gets out of the bathroom after fifteen minutes, he looks considerably less tense.  
  
“You look good, darling,” Eames says from the hallway, where he’s already getting his shoes on. “Very relaxed. I really can’t guess what you did in there.”  
  
“Just enjoyed some peace and quiet,” Arthur says, not looking at him.  
  
Eames opens his mouth but can’t remember what he was going to say. Arthur really looks good. His hair is wet and messy and, well, he has nice shoulders. Lean but well-defined. Eames can appreciate that.  
  
“I thought you were leaving,” Arthur says in a dry voice.  
  
“Of course,” Eames says, checking that he has the essentials: his phone, his keys, his wallet and his gun. He kind of wants to say something more to Arthur but can’t come up with anything smart, so he just leaves.

**

“Arthur?”  
  
“In the living room.”  
  
“I brought food,” Eames says, kicking off his shoes and walking into the apartment. He finds Arthur sitting in the armchair, the laptop on his knee. “Hi.”  
  
“Hi,” Arthur says. “You’re late.”  
  
“I didn’t realise I had a curfew.”  
  
Arthur frowns. “I was –“  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing. What did you bring?”  
  
“Chinese,” Eames says and starts unloading the boxes of food from the plastic bag. He’s fucking starving, and also he’s tired and kind of really wants to know if Arthur almost said he’s been _ worried _ about Eames. That’d be absurd. Eames can do his job just fine. Arthur knows that. And they’re just colleagues, they’re sharing an apartment because it seemed convenient, but that doesn’t mean Arthur’s _ waiting _for him to come home at night, concerned if he’s late. That doesn’t mean Arthur’s been checking the time, wondering if maybe he ought to call Eames, just to make sure everything’s alright.  
  
“Anything new?” Arthur asks, when Eames has put the food on the coffee table and is sitting in the other armchair.  
  
“Not really. You?”  
  
“I’ve been going over the mark’s investments.”  
  
“How exciting,” Eames says, nodding at the food. “Help yourself.”  
  
“Thank you,” Arthur says, takes a fork and the closest box. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans and hasn’t bothered to fix his hair. Maybe that’s what he looks like when he’s at home. Eames certainly never thought he’d see that.  
  
“Had any time to watch Downton Abbey today?”  
  
Arthur glances at him and resumes eating. “A few episodes.”  
  
“So, what is it about,” Eames says, trying to look like he’s not watching Arthur, “do you just like to be called _ sir? _ Or is it something more?”  
  
“What?” Arthur says, but his voice doesn’t have an edge in it.  
  
“Like, a little powerplay? I don’t judge. I’m just curious.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says and goddamn _ licks his lips, _ the bastard. Well, he’s eating, so maybe the licking isn’t meant to mess up Eames’ head. “I don’t get why you’d be curious about that.”  
  
“Curious about what you like in bed? You bet that I am.”  
  
“Well,” Arthur says slowly, “I thought you’d know better than to ask me.”  
  
“What’re you going to do –,” Eames says, filling his mouth with food so that it takes a while until he can talk again, “- shoot me?”  
  
“I know how to.”  
  
“I know you do,” Eames says and glances at him, “sir.”  
  
Arthur just stares at him.  
  
“Do you like the food,” Eames says, “sir?”  
  
“Eames.”  
  
“Tell me you aren’t at least a little turned on.”  
  
“Why the fuck would you even ask –“  
  
“Good,” Eames says, getting onto his feet, “great, I’m glad this is working out for you. Just let me get a glass of water and we can go on.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur calls after him, his voice all serious like when they’re working, “there’s wine in the cupboard.”  
  
“Thank you, sir,” Eames says, drinks a glass of water and then takes the bottle of red wine from the upper shelf. Then he goes back, gives Arthur the wine, and sits down in the armchair, sprawling his legs. It’s not like Arthur’s interested in staring at his crotch anyway. “Tell me something about you.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Like how you hit on people. I’ve never seen you do it.”  
  
“Because I don’t.”  
  
“Okay,” Eames says and takes the wine when Arthur passes it at him. He doesn’t really care about wine but well, this is for social reasons. “So, you find them online.”  
  
“I don’t -,” Arthur begins but drops it. “What’re you going to do with that information?”  
  
“Well, obviously I’m going to find your profile in every dating site you’re on, and then I’m going to hit on you there, because I don’t have the guts to do it face to face,” Eames says, dragging his feet forward on the floor until his toes poke at Arthur’s ankle. Arthur isn’t wearing socks. That’s odd. He never thought Arthur would be wild like that. “Darling.”  
  
“I thought you were going with _ sir. _”  
  
“I _ was _ ,” Eames says, “thank you for reminding me, _ sir. _ So, online dating. How’s that working out for you?”  
  
“Not worse than trying to hit on someone face to face,” Arthur says slowly. He hasn’t moved his ankle away from Eames’ poking toes. “I don’t know if you have noticed, but I’m sometimes a bit… uptight.”  
  
Eames laughs and then tries to cover it with a cough, in case Arthur’s feelings are hurt. “Never crossed my mind.”  
  
“I thought so,” Arthur says, but he’s smiling. Oh, God, he’s smiling at Eames, and he’s doing it nicely, like a real person. Also, the way he’s watching Eames is just charming, like Eames is a little out of control and there’s no way to know what he’s going to do next, but also there’s no reason to be worried, because Eames isn’t dangerous. No, he’s just odd. He’s odd and Arthur could have him pulled against the wall any time he’d like to.  
  
Eames clears his throat and takes a bit more wine.  
  
“Anyway,” Arthur says, “I’ve tried to, you know, go to a gay bar. Once or twice. But everyone I tried to talk to seemed a bit uncomfortable.”  
  
“I can imagine,” Eames says. It’s too bad, really. Those men didn’t have a clue what they were missing.  
  
“Really?” Arthur asks, leaning slightly towards him. “Can you tell me what I’m doing wrong, then?”  
  
“Maybe we should go to a gay bar to practise,” Eames says, “then I could give you a few tips.”  
  
“I’m sure you’re great at it.”  
  
“You’re right as always.”  
  
Arthur grins at him.  
  
“I could guess, though,” he says, watching Arthur’s fingers holding the glass, “and my guess would be that maybe, just maybe you’re trying too much. Maybe you’re doing it like you do your job.”  
  
“And how’s that?”  
  
“Perfectly,” Eames says and blinks. He shouldn’t be staring at Arthur’s hands. “But, darling, picking up men at the bar isn’t something you can do perfectly. It’s more about… confidence. And timing.”  
  
“And how do you manage those?”  
  
“I think,” Eames says, “I _ think _ you’ve got to believe you’re a good catch. And then you’ve got to find someone who believes it, too.”  
  
Arthur smiles at him. “That’s bullshit.”  
  
“No, it’s not.”  
  
“That’s not helpful at all.”  
  
“Well, maybe this is something that can’t be taught,” Eames says. “Anyway, are you doing any better online?”  
  
“Not really,” Arthur says, “every time I think someone is at least a little interesting, I find out everything about them.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says. He shouldn’t laugh. But that sounds exactly like something Arthur would do. “Oh, darling.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“And then you find out about what kind of porn they like to watch and what they’ve googled recently and what kind of financial situation they have and if they get along with their mothers.”  
  
“Pretty much.”  
  
“So,” Eames says, shifting forward in the armchair so that he can brush his toes against Arthur’s shin, “_ so _, what I’ve been able to figure out about you this far is that you rarely get laid.”  
  
“You’re being very observant,” Arthur says, watching him.  
  
“I always am. But tell me, have you ever actually seen anyone you met online?”  
  
“For sex? A few times.”  
  
“And how was it?”  
  
“Terrible.”  
  
“They didn’t call you _ sir. _”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, chewing on his lower lip.  
  
“Or _ darling. _”  
  
“That’s not a requirement.”  
  
“Have you ever tried dating a woman?”  
  
“Yeah.” Arthur tilts his head to the right. “Cobb set me up for a blind date once. Mal was alive then. They meant well, though.”  
  
“Cobb set you up with a _ woman. _”  
  
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t like he had asked me what I like.”  
  
“And did you like it? The blind date?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, something wary in his eyes, “not at all. I dated her for a month or so, anyway.”  
  
“No, you didn’t.”  
  
“Yeah. It seemed like a thing to do. Mal was happy about it, until she found out that I wasn’t. It’s not exactly her fault it took her so long to realise that. I was trying very hard to seem happy.”  
  
“So, no women.”  
  
“Not like that.”  
  
“I’m just wondering,” Eames says, “if we went to a gay bar today, I know one which is pretty nice, but anyway, if we went there, and you tried to hit on the most interesting man you could find there, what would he be like?”  
  
“I was wondering,” Arthur says, standing up and pushing the armchair a few inches towards Eames. Then he sits back down, takes a sip of his wine and fucking raises his feet and places them in Eames’ lap. Eames swallows. But there’s nothing he can do, is there? And it’s not like he’s _ uncomfortable. _ Of course not. They’re just _ feet _ . It’s just that one of Arthur’s heels is resting heavily pretty close to his crotch. “ _ I _was wondering, when was the last time you got laid.”  
  
“What?” Eames says. Arthur’s toenails are neat and tidy.  
  
“When was the last time you got laid?”  
  
“I thought we were talking about you.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you were wrong.” Arthur wriggles his toes. “I told you I’m bad at hitting on people. It’s your turn now.”  
  
“I…” Eames really needs to stop staring at Arthur’s bare feet. “I think maybe three weeks ago.”  
  
Arthur’s gaze on him is sharp. “Not here. Not in Lisbon.”  
  
“No.” Eames slowly, slowly, raises his hand and places it on Arthur’s ankle. Arthur’s not shaving his legs. That’s nice to know. “You mean, not when I’ve been living with you.”  
  
“We aren’t actually living together.”  
  
“Sharing a flat, then. Temporarily.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says. “That’s what I meant. You could’ve, though. You’re out a lot.”  
  
“I’m gathering information,” Eames says, “for forging. You know that.”  
  
“You could stop by a club or something. I hear that you’re good at hitting on people.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Eames says, brushing his fingers on Arthur’s ankle. It’s funny, the way Arthur’s toes flinch, probably involuntarily. “Sometimes I don’t have the guts. Sometimes I begin thinking that I wouldn’t want to mess it up.”  
  
“Really? I didn’t think you care.”  
  
“We could go, you know,” Eames says, “tomorrow. To a gay bar. We could dance. I’m sure you’d be terrible at it.”  
  
“I don’t want to disappoint you,” Arthur says, “or hold you back.”  
  
“You wouldn’t. I could show you how to flirt.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
Eames is staring at Arthur’s toes again – Arthur’s heel is placed so close to Eames’ crotch that surely Eames should either pull it closer or push it back a little – so it takes him a few seconds to realise what Arthur said. “Fine?”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says and pulls his feet back from Eames’ lap. Eames tries to adjust his trousers. It’s not like he’s hard, not exactly, he’s just… not the opposite. And Arthur’s watching him. “Tomorrow evening. Can I wear one of my suits?”  
  
“Definitely not,” Eames says. “We’ll figure out something.”  
  
“Great,” Arthur says, picking the wine and the empty boxes of food and standing up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to watch a few episodes of Downton Abbey.”  
  
Eames sits still in the armchair until Arthur’s gone to his bedroom and closed the door. The apartment is oddly quiet. His trousers are oddly tight. His mouth tastes of wine and there’s a ghost of Arthur’s feet still resting in his lap.

**

“This is my most casual suit,” Arthur says, wearing a suit that looks just like any other suit.  
  
“Get rid of the coat,” Eames says, walking at him and opening a few top buttons of his shirt. “And if I see that you’ve buttoned this up again, I’ll slap you on the ass in public.”  
  
There’s an odd calculating look in Arthur’s eyes.  
  
“And you’ve got to wear jeans,” Eames says. “Wear those jeans you wear every day when you watch Downton Abbey here at home.”  
  
“Home?”  
  
“You know what I mean.”  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says and disappears to his bedroom. He doesn’t close the door properly, though, and Eames doesn’t bother pretending he’s not trying to get a good look. “Like this?” Arthur asks, coming back to the living room. “And I know you were looking at me.”  
  
“Of course,” Eames says. “And that’s good. You could look worse than that. Maybe we could find you someone who’s looking for a dull office worker.”  
  
“I’m sure that would work out just fine,” Arthur says and fumbles with the top button of his shirt, until he catches Eames’ look. “Sorry.”  
  
“Come on,” Eames says, “we’re going to find you someone to hit on.”  
  
It turns out that’s surprisingly difficult, and it’s not the club’s fault at all. This is a good place. This is the place where Eames met the French doctor with delightfully illegal hobbies in early 2006. The music has changed since that but maybe that’s for the better. And there’s nothing wrong with the men here, either. It’s just that Arthur doesn’t seem interested in anyone.  
  
“What about him?” Eames asks, leaning closer to Arthur because the music’s quite loud.  
  
“Who?” Arthur asks, so close to him that he can smell the wine in Arthur’s breath.  
  
“The tall one in the corner.”  
  
Arthur frowns. “Too tall.”  
  
“_Too tall? _”  
  
Arthur shrugs.  
  
“Okay,” Eames says, well, who’s he to judge? “What about him, the one who’s dancing? He’s not too tall.”  
  
“I don’t think so,” Arthur says, staring at the man who’s not tall at all but is dancing really quite well. “He’s dancing too well.”  
  
“You’ve got to find someone you’re at least a little bit interested in. They can’t all be that bad. And you’re just trying to practise flirting with them, for fuck’s sake. You don’t have to date them.”  
  
“Maybe this was a bad idea,” Arthur says. The disco ball throws light on his face, but he still looks kind of sad.  
  
“I’m not letting you to give up,” Eames says and grabs Arthur’s elbow. “We’re going to dance.”  
  
Of course it’s a mistake. Arthur dances like he’s watched an instruction video on Youtube ten years ago and is trying to remember what exactly was in it and not, God forbid, improvise at all. Eames bites his lip and tries to focus on something else for a while, but he can’t, because Arthur’s right there, stumbling on the dance floor and poking at Eames with his elbows, and it’s so sweet. Arthur’s fucking clueless. Arthur could never pick up a man here, not on his own at least. And Arthur’s not even trying, no, the idiot is looking at Eames and smiling even though he _ must _know his dancing is terrible. Eames takes a deep breath and grabs Arthur’s hips, just so that he can show how it’s done. The dancing, that is. He pulls Arthur closer and Arthur doesn’t punch him in the face, which is good.  
  
“You don’t know how to dance,” he says to Arthur’s ear.  
  
“I’ve read about it,” Arthur says, leaning closer. Eames has to hold him back from the hips so that he doesn’t end up pressing their crotches together. “Shouldn’t be too difficult.”  
  
“I don’t think you’re going to have sex tonight.”  
  
“Too bad,” Arthur says, placing a hand on Eames’ shoulder. “I feel odd. Can I button up my shirt?”  
  
“Sure,” Eames says, follows Arthur back to the counter and watches as Arthur fastens all the buttons. The idiot. But it’s not like Arthur doesn’t look great, anyway. He looks just like Arthur, well, Arthur who’s been dragged to a gay bar and made to wear jeans. “You really should try to talk to someone other than me.”  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says. “But you have to pick.”  
  
“Okay, just to get you some practice,” Eames says and eyes the crowd. There’s a man who’s sitting alone, tilting his head with the rhythm of the music. He has messy black hair, light brown skin and nice glasses. “Try the one with the glasses.”  
  
Arthur frowns. “I don’t like his shirt.”  
  
“Just try it,” Eames says. “Go talk to him.”  
  
When Arthur goes, Eames leans against the counter, drinking a beer and wondering if he ought to be proud or worried. After a minute or so, Arthur’s kind of smiling at the man, and surely Eames is proud, it’s just that he’s also… he doesn’t bloody know what he is. Maybe Arthur will bring the man home tonight and Eames will have to listen to them having wild sex in Arthur’s bedroom. Damn, that’d be awkward. And in the morning, he’d have to make small talk with the man with the glasses, while he’d be imaging the man having sex with Arthur.  
  
Eames isn’t _ relieved _ when Arthur comes back to him alone. Of course not. That’d be crazy. “So?”  
  
Arthur takes a sip of Eames’ beer and then shrugs. “He told me to tell my boyfriend that he’s a good dancer.”  
  
“What? Who?” Eames asks and then clears his throat, when Arthur glances at him pointedly. “Oh. _ Oh. _”  
  
“Maybe it’s because you were groping my hips.”  
  
“Well, you could’ve pushed me off."  
  
“I didn’t mind,” Arthur says and finishes Eames’ beer.  
  
“So,” Eames says, “_ so _, I think maybe you aren’t going to take anyone home tonight.”  
  
“Maybe not,” Arthur says. “Could we just go? I don’t really enjoy wearing jeans in public.”  
  
Outside, the wind tastes of sea and Arthur doesn’t seem to mind that Eames is walking quite close to him. “I’m sorry he thought I was your boyfriend.”  
  
“Don’t worry,” Arthur says, glancing at him. “I wouldn’t have brought him along anyway.”  
  
“Why the hell not? I wouldn’t have minded.” He bites his lip when Arthur glances at him again, this time quite sharply. “Anyway, you were the best there was. If I had been there looking for someone to sleep with, I’d have hit on you.”  
  
“Okay,” Arthur says. “Thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome, darling.”  
  
“Why do you keep calling me that?”  
  
It’s a very nice night, indeed. It’s warm but not too warm, and it’s probably going to rain but not just yet. And no one’s chasing them with a gun.  
  
Eames clears his throat. “You’ve never asked me that.”  
  
“Well,” Arthur says and then falls silent.  
  
“It’s just that,” Eames says but can’t figure out how to finish it. It’s funny how easy it is, walking on the pavement with Arthur. Maybe he’s just very familiar with the way Arthur walks. He’s a brilliant forger, after all. “Do you mind?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says.  
  
“Great.” He glances at Arthur. Anyone would’ve wanted to sleep with Arthur, _ anyone. _ If only Arthur had tried a little. “Sorry I couldn’t find you anyone to sleep with.”  
  
“That’s okay,” Arthur says. “I liked dancing with you.”  
  
After a minute, Eames realises he’s frowning.

**

“We should probably go to sleep,” Arthur says, unbuttoning his shirt in the middle of the living room. His hair is a bit dishevelled and his movements are more tired than drunk.  
  
“Need help with that?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, of course he says that, why the hell would he want Eames to help him to undress? Eames goes to the kitchen and eats the only thing he can find, which is a slice of pizza that’s been in the fridge for three days at least. Well, it tastes alright. It’s too bad he couldn’t help Arthur hit on anyone. Too bad.  
  
“Are you hungry? I just ate the rest of the pizza.”  
  
“From five days ago?” Arthur glances at him. “You really shouldn’t have eaten that.”  
  
“Sorry,” Eames says. Arthur shrugs his shirt off and throws it at the back of the sofa, almost like he’s not worried about it getting crumpled. Oh, God. Maybe this is what Arthur is like when he gets home from trying to get laid and failing, slightly tipsy and a bit disappointed in himself but not too much, obviously not too much, because he’s kind of smiling at Eames now. “What?”  
  
“What?” Arthur says. “You’re staring at me.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“Do I look that bad?”  
  
“No,” Eames says and then wonders if he ought to have said something witty, but it’s too late anyway and he can’t figure out anything. “No, you don’t look bad at all.”  
  
Arthur frowns at him and shifts his weight from one foot to another. The light of the streetlamps is coming through the windows, painting Arthur with nice kind colours. Arthur looks at the bedroom door and then glances at Eames’ bedroom door, which is oddly sympathetic in a way that Eames doesn’t really care to think about, not just now. Then Arthur looks at Eames again.  
  
“Come on,” Eames says, “you’ve got to be hungry. Come here and eat something. I think we have cereal.”  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says. He sits down at the kitchen table, puts cereal and milk into a bowl and starts eating it with a spoon, and Eames probably shouldn’t stare, but he does. He _ know _ s Arthur’s got to live somewhere, and he _ knows _ Arthur eats and sleeps like the rest of them, and that he’s not probably wearing a suit all the time. But somehow it still seems life-chancing to see Arthur eating cereal at night, wearing nothing but jeans, and looking like he’s not even wondering where his suit is.  
  
“You’re staring at me again.”  
  
“Sorry, sorry,” Eames says, takes the bottle of wine they didn’t quite finish last night and sits at the table in front of Arthur. “You look comfortable.”  
  
Arthur grimaces.  
  
“And so that you know, I think you like it when I stare at you,” Eames says and pours wine into the coffee mugs they left at the table in the morning. He takes a sip. He can barely notice the taste of coffee. “Are you disappointed?”  
  
“I usually am,” Arthur says, takes the other mug and stares at it, eyes narrowed. “Was there coffee in this?”  
  
“Not really. Maybe a little. So, you aren’t disappointed.”  
  
“About what?” Arthur says and drinks a bit of the wine. “This is awful, Eames. You should’ve gotten clean glasses.”  
  
“Your flirting.”  
  
“I know I’m bad at it.”  
  
“You weren’t really trying, though,” Eames says, pushing his feet forward on the floor. He only manages to hit his toe on the table leg. “And what the fuck was that, _ too tall _?”  
  
“I just didn’t think I’d be interested in him,” Arthur says.  
  
“So,” Eames says, clearing his throat, “_ so _, are you interested in people, in general? Or is it that there really wasn’t anyone in the club you could’ve imagined, I don’t know, having sex with?”

“I just have standards.”  
  
“You just have standards.”  
  
“Fucking hell, Eames,” Arthur says, putting his spoon down even though there’s still milk in his bowl. “That’s not your business.”  
  
“Well, I just tried to be your wingman,” Eames says, “so it kind of is my business.”  
  
“But why do you care?” Arthur says and then takes in a deep breath and starts spooning the milk into his mouth. “Why the fuck would you care?”  
  
“I don’t,” Eames says, trying to decide if Arthur’s actually angry at him. Probably not. He watches Arthur’s neck. He can’t see stubble, not even when he narrows his eyes and leans closer. Maybe Arthur likes men like himself, men who can talk about the suits they’re wearing and who don’t have stubble the second they’ve stopped shaving. Or maybe Arthur likes the opposite, for example, men who have broad shoulders and always stubble and who aren’t quite as tall as Arthur but have arms twice as big, and who genuinely like orange in clothes and decorating, and who have a nice British accent and are great at both dancing and flirting.  
  
Bloody hell, what’s he thinking about?  
  
He clears his throat. “Or don’t you like sex?”  
  
“Not your fucking business,” Arthur says, his voice almost bored. Then he straightens his back and looks at Eames. “I like sex. Usually. Sometimes. It depends.”  
  
“Depends on what? Depends on if they know how to meet your standards?”  
  
“Depends on if I like them,” Arthur says.  
  
Eames blinks. “What?”  
  
“Sex –,” Arthur says slowly as if he was explaining it to a child, although Eames has hard time trying to imagine Arthur explaining _ sex _to a child, which probably is a good thing, “- is messy and takes time and never goes like you plan it. With people.”  
  
“That’s half of the charm,” Eames says.  
  
“I’m sure,” Arthur says, leaning back in his chair, “but you might’ve noticed that I’m not exactly an easy-going person. I like to plan things. And I like things to go according to the plan. And I don’t like mess.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, biting his lip. So, whoever is going to have sex with Arthur, is going to have to do it nicely and neatly and just the way Arthur has planned it. Sounds awful. A poor bastard.  
  
“Are you surprised?” Arthur asks in a flat tone, but he sounds genuinely interested.  
  
“I probably shouldn’t be, you being the nervous uptight person that you are.”  
  
“You really shouldn’t.”  
  
“So, this whole discussion about how bad you’re at trying to get laid,” Eames says, “you just wanted my tips, even though you didn’t mean to do anything with them.”  
  
“I said it depends,” Arthur says, and it takes Eames a few seconds to remember what depends and on what, maybe because he’s staring at Arthur’s hands again. Arthur has nice hands, and he’s drumming his fingers onto the table without a sound. He seems a bit nervous. “I don’t like sex with people I don’t know and don’t care about. It’s terribly inconvenient and there’s nothing to gain.”  
  
“You could get off,” Eames says, his voice coming out a bit thin.  
  
“I can get off by myself,” Arthur says. “Ever heard of jerking off?”  
  
“No,” Eames says, “yeah, of course. Of course I have. But it’s not _ the same. _”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, “I don’t need to explain myself to some stranger I don’t give a fuck about.”  
  
“Maybe you just like odd stuff,” Eames says, “if it’s so hard to explain to someone who’d like to sleep with you. Maybe you like, I don’t know, maybe you like something you can’t even tell me, let alone someone you don’t already know, because you know me, don’t you? We’ve worked together at least ten times.”  
  
“Twelve,” Arthur says, staring at him. “Eames.”  
  
“I was just thinking about what we were talking about the other day,” Eames says, and for some reason he can’t look at Arthur just now, “that you like to be called _ sir. _”  
  
“I don’t,” Arthur says surprisingly firmly. “And so that you know, they don’t say _ sir _ in Downton Abbey. They say _ my Lord. _ Or _ m’Lord. _ And I really, really don’t fantasise about being a British aristocrat.”  
  
“Really? What an Earth do you have against the British aristocrats?”  
  
“Don’t tell me you’re one.”  
  
“I definitely am not. So, it was just a coincidence then.”  
  
“What was?”  
  
“That you got hard when I called you _ sir. _”  
  
“I didn’t -,” Arthur says, takes a deep breath and then drinks the wine that surely tastes like coffee. “I didn’t. You imagined that.”  
  
“You did. A little.”  
  
“It wasn’t even close.”  
  
“You looked like you had sat on a stick.”  
  
Arthur stares at him for a second and then fucking _ laughs.  
  
_“What?”  
  
“I looked like I sat on a stick? Couldn’t you figure out anything less subtle to say?”  
  
Eames thinks about that a little and then bites his lip. “I didn’t mean it like that.”  
  
“I’m sure you didn’t.”  
  
“But now that we’re talking about it,” Eames says, “what do you like, anyway? If you happen to find someone you like enough to want to have hygienic and well-planned sex with them.”  
  
“I don’t know what you mean by _ hygienic _ ,” Arthur says. “But anyway, _ and _ if that person wants to have sex with me as well.”  
  
“But who wouldn’t want to have sex with you, really?” Eames says, shifting in his chair. It’s too bad that they’ve already finished the wine. He finds a coffee mug with a little coffee still in it and drinks that. Cold but otherwise, not bad.  
  
“Plenty of people, I’d assume,” Arthur says. “Do you really want to know?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“What I like.”  
  
“Sure,” Eames says and then clears his throat. “Of course. But, you know, maybe you should start by admitting that you want me to call you _ sir. _”  
  
Arthur stays silent for long enough that Eames begins to seriously reconsider what he just said and, when Arthur’s still not saying anything, everything he’s said tonight. He doesn’t want to piss off Arthur. That’d be terrible. Well, he wants Arthur to snap at him but not stay angry at him for too long. He wants Arthur to like him and -  
  
“I guess,” Arthur says in a voice that’s elaborately calm, “I _ guess _it’s just that I liked the way you said it.”  
  
“I said what?” Eames asks. Arthur doesn’t seem angry.  
  
“_ Sir _ . I mean, it’s not that I have a thing for, I don’t know, random people calling me _ sir _in bed. But I liked when you called me that.”  
  
“Really,” Eames says.  
  
“Really,” Arthur says, sounding as if he deeply regrets it.  
  
“So, you_ were _hard.”  
  
“No, I wasn’t.”  
  
“But you were getting there.”  
  
Arthur crosses his hands on the table. “Well, maybe, if the situation had been different, and you wouldn’t have been an asshole about it, and then you would’ve kept on doing it –“  
  
“_ Really? _”  
  
“Eames.”  
  
“I just meant,” Eames says, clearing his throat because his voice isn’t sounding exactly like he wants it to, no, he sounds like he’s in a hurry and also kind of frightened, “that sounds a bit like you might like me.”  
  
“I don’t know about that,” Arthur says, crossing his arms on his bare chest. He looks ridiculous, sitting at the kitchen table without a shirt, his face all serious. He looks absolutely delightful. “You’re pretty intolerable.”  
  
“Maybe you like that, too.”  
  
“Maybe I don’t, sometimes, resent your company,” Artur says. He’s smiling a little, but he also looks nervous as hell.  
  
“Great,” Eames says, “that’s great, because I don’t resent yours. You should’ve tried to hit on me at the club.”  
  
“And,” Arthur says slowly, “how would’ve I done that?”  
  
“You could’ve talked to me,” Eames says, “probably about anything you liked, I would’ve listened to your bullshit anyway. And you could’ve danced with me.”  
  
“I did.”  
  
Eames blink. “You actually did.”  
  
“And you listened to my bullshit.”  
  
“I did,” Eames says, taking a deep breath. “That’s odd.”  
  
“Yeah, it is,” Arthur says, then takes the mug in which Eames poured wine for him, and finishes it. “This is really disgusting, Eames. You shouldn’t mix coffee with wine. Anyway -,” Arthur stands up, and Eames just stares because he can’t get his thoughts together well enough to figure out what else to do, “- it’s late, and I’m planning to wake up early and start digging into the mark’s investments in the late nineties. So, I suppose I’m going to go sleep now. Thank you for the evening. Good night.”  
  
“Good night,” Eames says, only he doesn’t sound very convincing. He stares as Arthur walks to the bathroom with steady steps, and then he fills Arthur’s bowl with cereal and eats it without milk, because apparently Arthur used all of it. The sneaky bastard. He’s not really angry, though, but rather wondering what the hell Arthur said to him and what the hell he said to Arthur.

**

“Arthur, do you remember what you said to me yesterday?”  
  
Arthur glances at Eames and then returns his gaze to his laptop. “Of course not.”  
  
“No, I meant –“ Eames takes a deep breath and then closes his mouth. Bloody hell. It’s not like he can just _ ask _Arthur if he, by any chance, told Eames yesterday that he tried to flirt with Eames at the bar. That’d be absurd. Arthur would laugh at him, and then Arthur would laugh a little more when he realized that it’s evening already and Eames has been thinking about this particular question the whole goddamn day. “Nothing. I meant nothing.”  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says.  
  
“Fine,” Eames says, goes to the kitchen and makes himself a sandwich. He should probably go out. It can’t be healthy for him to stay in the flat and stare at Arthur, who’s kindly playing oblivious. That’s very nice of him. But Eames knew Arthur can be nice, didn’t he? He knew that.  
  
Maybe Arthur really tried to flirt with Eames yesterday. Maybe that was what happened at the bar, when Eames was trying to teach Arthur how to flirt. It’d be a little embarrassing for Eames, perhaps, since he's made a career out of _ noticing _what people do. But otherwise, would he mind? Obviously not. If Arthur wants to flirt with Eames, Arthur’s welcome to do that. Maybe Arthur trusts Eames more than other people and that’s why Eames is Arthur’s first choice, when he wants to practise flirting with someone. Maybe Arthur knows Eames won’t laugh at him, or rather knows Eames most definitely will laugh at him but nicely. Because Eames likes Arthur. Of course Eames likes Arthur. What’s not to like? The constant frowning, the concentration of never having fun, or the over-thinking of every little thing a normal person wouldn’t give a shit about? No. No, nothing Eames wouldn’t like.  
  
But maybe Arthur didn’t try to flirt with Eames yesterday. Maybe Eames got it wrong. Maybe Eames had, at that point, drunk a little too much wine mixed with coffee and misunderstood what Arthur was saying.  
  
“Eames?”  
  
He blinks. “What is it, darling?"  
  
Arthur’s looking at him, still holding his laptop but clearly not very interested in Downton Abbey or whatever is going on in there. “You looked really worried suddenly.”  
  
“What?” Eames grins at him, as wide as he can. “No. I wasn’t worried.”  
  
“It’s not my business, I just… I never see you looking worried, so it was a bit… disorienting.”  
  
“Sorry about that,” Eames says and straightens his back. “Won’t happen again.”  
  
“I didn’t mean…” Arthur frowns. “Okay.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says. Arthur begins staring at his laptop again. Maybe Arthur fancies one of those ridiculously dressed men in Downton Abbey. Maybe Arthur would rather stare at them than Eames. “Arthur?”  
  
“Yeah?” Arthur says, putting the laptop away and looking at Eames again.   
  
“I was just wondering,” Eames says and clears his throat, “if you happened to try to flirt with me, why would that be?”  
  
“Sorry?"  
  
“Why the hell would you do that?” Well, that came out a little wrong. “I mean, what would be the reason?”  
  
“If I tried to flirt with you, what would be the reason?” Arthur says, turning to Eames. He’s not wearing socks again. He has the same t-shirt and the same jeans and his hair is a mess. Actually, he looks like a man who went to a gay bar yesterday and afterwards drank wine from coffee cups with a friend and slept too little. “That’s what you’re asking.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says. It’s not a stupid thing to ask. Not at all.  
  
“Well,” Arthur says slowly, placing his palms on his knees and leaning forward, just a little, “I suppose it might mean that I wouldn’t find you very unattractive.”  
  
“But you’d do it for practise,” Eames says, “naturally, because it’s not like you’d be hoping that it’d be going somewhere.”  
  
“I seriously doubt any amount of practice with flirting will make me good at it,” Arthur says and takes a deep breath. Eames can see his collar bones next to the neckline of the t-shirt. Arthur’s chest seems terribly pale, but then again, Arthur seems just the kind of person who’d try to sunbathe dressed in a suit. “And what do you mean, it’d be going somewhere?”  
  
“Just that,” Eames says, “you know.”  
  
“I’m not sure I do,” Arthur says, “because I’m very bad at flirting, as you know. So, where?”  
  
“Where could it go?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Well, for example,” Eames says, “towards sex.”  
  
Arthur clears his throat. “Sex?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“So, you are wondering if I’m flirting with you because I think that you and I might have sex.”  
  
“No, absolutely not,” Eames says, but his voice comes out a bit funny. He stands up and gets a bottle of water. It doesn’t help but at least he’s got something to hang onto now. Or something to squeeze. “Or, I mean, maybe. If you happened to be flirting with me. Like, if you had tried to flirt with me yesterday. At the club. When you were dancing with me.”  
  
“You said I was terrible at dancing,” Arthur says.  
  
“You were,” Eames says, “but you were very charming about it.”  
  
“I was very charming about it?”  
  
“Yeah. In a masculine way.”  
  
Arthur tilts his head to the right and looks at Eames like he doesn’t have a clue what Eames’ talking about. “You think I’m masculine?”  
  
“Of course not,” Eames says quickly and then pauses. He should drink water. He drinks half of the bottle and then grabs it with both hands. “I mean, yes. But just the right amount.”  
  
“Right amount of what?”  
  
“Masculinity.” Oh, God, this conversation might be getting out of hand. “What were we talking about?”  
  
“I’m not sure,” Arthur says, watching him carefully. “So, would you be offended?”  
  
“About what? Generally, I’m not easily offended.”  
  
“About me trying to flirt with you.” Arthur pulls his shoulders back. “I’m just asking.”  
  
“Not at all,” Eames says, “absolutely not. I might be a little confused, though. But only because you’d be bad at it. Flirting, I mean. Not sex. I don’t have any reason to believe you’d be bad at sex.”  
  
“I don’t know why you’re talking about sex,” Arthur says, “but I’m not completely certain that I’m very good at it. I’ve read a lot about it, of course. And practised it. Sometimes.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Eames says. It seems to be the only appropriate answer, and also now he’s thinking about Arthur reading about sex, and trying to practise it, and probably giving himself scores from zero to ten. Or possibly from F to A, like at school. Oh, fucking_ hell. _ “I just meant that if you tried to flirt with me, I mightn’t notice. Only because you’re bad at it. I’m usually very good at noticing things.”  
  
“But you wouldn’t be offended.”  
  
“Not at all,” Eames says, only Arthur’s still looking at him like he doesn’t believe Eames. “Arthur, you’re a very good-looking man. I trust that you know that, but if you don’t, I’m happy to tell you. You’re gorgeous. In your own way. Which is a perfectly fine way. And you’re so serious that it’s sometimes funny, which is truly a gift, because everyone can tell lame jokes, right? But not everyone can be unintentionally hilarious like yourself. It’s very nice. If you tried to flirt with me, I’d be flattered. And confused. But flattered.”  
  
“And,” Arthur says, “what would you do next?”  
  
“What do you mean, what would I do next?”  
  
“If I was flirting with you,” Arthur says and licks his lips, and Eames tries not to stare but that’s kind of out of his control, “what would you do about it?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Eames says, “maybe I’d ask you if you’re doing it for fun or if you might want to have sex. Or something.”  
  
“Sex,” Arthur says, “or something.”  
  
Eames blinks. “What?”  
  
“I’m not sure,” Arthur says, frowning, and _ God _how good Arthur looks when he’s frowning, how come Eames never realised that? “You suggested it. But I think, maybe kissing might be a good place to start.”  
  
“_Kissing? _”  
  
“I don’t know,” Arthur says, sounding kind of jumpy now, and nervous, “I’m bad at this, remember? I’m really bad at this. So, if you have something else than kissing or sex in mind, maybe you could just tell me.”  
  
“Do you mean -,” Eames says and pauses to think it over. He can’t. “Are you saying that you want to kiss me?”  
  
“I’ve been trying to flirt with you for fucking half an hour,” Arthur says, now sounding angry, which is kind of a relief because that’s how Arthur normally sounds when he’s talking to Eames, “and yesterday when we were sitting in the kitchen, and at the club as well. Of course I fucking want to kiss you, you idiot.”  
  
“But you didn’t -,” Eames takes a deep breath. This is quite a lot. “You weren’t… I thought you weren’t being serious.”  
  
“I’m always serious,” Arthur says in a very serious voice, “about everything. You know that.”  
  
“So, for example, when you were dancing with me –“  
  
“I was serious about that, too. If you must know, I saw this Youtube video years ago that was supposed to teach anyone to dance, but maybe I had forgotten some of the moves –“  
  
“You aren’t supposed to _ remember _ the moves in a fucking tutorial video,” Eames says, stands up and realises he’s still holding the water bottle, only it’s a lot more crumpled now. “Stand up.”  
  
“What?” Arthur asks, staring at Eames as if Eames asked him if he wanted to kiss or something. “Why?”  
  
“I’m going to show you how it’s done.”  
  
Arthur just stares at him and doesn’t move.  
  
“Dancing,” he says, walks the Arthur and grabs the idiot by the elbows. At least Arthur doesn’t fight him when he pulls Arthur onto his feet. “You can’t dance like that. It’s terribly distracting.”  
  
“What’re you doing?”  
  
“Look,” he says and places his hands onto Arthur’s hips. It’s not like he didn’t already do that yesterday. “Just move your hips.”  
  
“I can’t,” Arthur says.  
  
“Of course you can,” Eames says, “it’s not like you’ve got something wrong with your joints.” He blinks. “Do you?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says. He’s breathing quite loudly even though they aren’t even dancing yet. Maybe they should go jogging later. That might be nice. Arthur and he, running side by side on a small road at the coast, as the sun would go down behind the horizon.  
  
“Great,” Eames says, pushing Arthur a little by the waist. “Just move this to the right. Or anywhere. Just anywhere.”  
  
“Eames. I can’t do this.”  
  
“Of course you can. Just listen to the music –“  
  
“There’s no music.”  
  
“Oh.” Shit. Eames could go find his phone, of course, and put music on. But he’d have to let go of Arthur and then who knows if he had the guts to touch Arthur again. “It doesn’t matter. Just imagine it.”  
  
“I can’t imagine,” Arthur says through his gritted teeth.  
  
“Okay,” Eames says. Shit, it sounds like Arthur’s going to panic. He puts his palm on the low of Arthur’s back and pulls Arthur closer to him, just to reassure him that everything’s alright. “Just follow my lead. I’m going to move my waist. You can do the same.”  
  
“Eames, this is a bad idea,” Arthur says.  
  
“Nonsense,” Eames says and moves his waist just a little. It brushes against Arthur’s. “Oh.”  
  
“Fucking hell,” Arthur says, which is rather harsh, but Eames doesn’t have time to complain, because Arthur presses himself against Eames. If it wasn’t obvious a second ago that Arthur’s at least half-hard, it certainly is now. Oh. _ Oh. _ Eames should probably ask Arthur what’s up with that. Shit, a poor choice of words. He should ask Arthur what’s going on down there, but no, that’s quite obvious. He should ask Arthur what Arthur would like to do next, but he doesn’t have time to do that, either, because Arthur leans closer and kisses him on the mouth.  
  
“Oh,” he says and pulls back.  
  
Arthur looks terribly disappointed.  
  
Eames puts his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. It’s too bad that means letting go of Arthur’s hips but then again, a man can’t have everything at once, can he? And this is good, too. He runs his thumb on the bare skin on Arthur’s throat and Arthur fucking _ shivers _, and then he takes a nice firm grip on Arthur’s chin and kisses Arthur.  
  
“You really like that?” he asks, when Arthur pulls back to breathe. “You really want to kiss me? You didn’t just, I don’t know, stumble on your feet?”  
  
“Shut the fuck up,” Arthur says. “You’re so annoying I can’t even deal with it.”  
  
“You’re doing very well, darling, you’re -,” but Eames has to stop at that, because Arthur’s mouth is on his again. He’s kind of beginning to realise that he’s kissing Arthur, _ Arthur _ of all people, _ his _ Arthur, and he’s not sure how the hell that happened, and he’s not sure why Arthur’s bothering with him, but he’s going to make the best of it, isn’t he? Yes, he is. He definitely is. He takes Arthur’s face in between his hands and runs his thumbs on Arthur’s chin which is impossibly smooth. When it seems that Arthur wants to breathe again, Eames kisses the corner of his mouth and his cheek and his throat and then licks a little, but the skin is still smooth, he doesn’t know how Arthur _ does _that, and who the fuck cares? Not him. He just wants to kiss Arthur, just like this, and maybe a little harder, too, maybe if he nipped a little, he could make Arthur groan or something, and wouldn’t that be great, wouldn’t that -  
  
“Eames.”  
  
“What?” he says and kisses Arthur on the mouth again. “Anything, darling. What do you want?”  
  
“I don’t have this planned,” Arthur says. He sounds a little stressed.  
  
“It’s alright.”  
  
“I don’t have a condom.”  
  
“What would you do with a condom?” Eames asks and then thinks about it a little. “_ Oh. _” He runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair that yields easily. “I have. I definitely have. Did you want to –“  
  
“I don’t know,” Arthur says, grabbing Eames’ shirt with both hands, “I didn’t plan this, I only planned kissing because I thought we wouldn’t do it anyway.”  
  
“You planned kissing?” That’s so _ sweet. _ Eames kisses Arthur on the mouth for a few times. “Did it go like you planned?”  
  
“Not at all.”  
  
“You can tell me what to do. Just tell me about your plans. Or if you’ve written it down, I can read it. Just let me find my reading glasses.”  
  
“Just -,” Arthur says and takes a deep breath, “can you just stop for a moment?”  
  
“Yeah, of course,” Eames says and stops trying to kiss Arthur, because that was the only thing he was doing, anyway.  
  
“And stay still.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“And stay quiet when I kiss you,” Arthur says and frowns. “I mean, you can, I don’t know, moan if you want. But don’t talk. Just… can you put your hands on my sides?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “yes, sir.”  
  
Arthur glares at him. “Stop that.”  
  
“Of course, sir,” Eames says, and he’s quite certain Arthur’s cock likes that, he can feel it through the layers of fabric, but then he’s got to stop thinking about Arthur’s cock because Arthur’s kissing him again, and well, that’s enough to think about. Arthur’s kissing Eames like he’s fantasized about it for weeks, written the fantasy down and then memorised it. It shouldn’t probably be hot but it is.  
  
Eames moans a little.  
  
“You don’t have to,” Arthur says into his mouth, Arthur’s fingers soothing the back of his neck.  
  
He moans a bit more.  
  
“If you’re only doing this to humour me,” Arthur says, “I’m never going to speak to you again.”  
  
Eames inches forward so that Arthur can’t definitely miss the very hard evidence of how much he’s not doing this just to humour Arthur.  
  
“That was subtle,” Arthur says.  
  
“You’re an idiot,” Eames says. “Have I ever done anything to humour you?”  
  
Arthur’s quiet for a few seconds. “I guess not.”  
  
“And so that you know,” Eames says, “I really, really want to sleep with you. Like, for real. If you want me to. And I don’t mind if you already have it planned.”  
  
“I don’t have anything specific,” Arthur says. He sounds worried and very aroused.  
  
“Good,” Eames says, “we’ll improvise. That’s my speciality anyway. Do you want me to fuck you?”  
  
Arthur’s silent for just a second. “Yes.”  
  
“Oh, thank you,” Eames says, “_thank you _, that’s just… Fine. I can do it. Just tell me what you want me to do.”  
  
“Maybe,” Arthur says and clears his throat, “undress me.”

**

He doesn’t call Arthur _ sir. _ He doesn’t have time, because even though Arthur _ claims _ he doesn’t have this planned and written down and stored in a folder hidden in the depths of his laptop’s hard-drive, he _ does _ have quite specific wishes, like, _ can you remove my shirt, Eames, _ or _ can you open my zipper, Eames _ , or _ can you bite my nipple, Eames _ , which kind of makes Eames’ knees wobble a little and not only because of the way Arthur says it, steadily and perfectly and blushing. But he tries to do everything Arthur asks of him as well as he can and Arthur keeps asking, and asking more and more of him, and saying not only _ nipple _ but _ cock _ and _ ass _ and _ balls _ as well and it’s just brilliant, isn’t it? Just brilliant. And Arthur’s looking so flushed and happy in a way that’s very difficult to comprehend. It’s almost like Arthur himself was wondering what the hell that feeling _ is. _ But he keeps asking Eames to do things anyway, which is perfect, and it’s even more perfect now that Eames has two fingers in Arthur’s ass and Arthur’s still giving him bloody _ instructions.  
  
_He takes some liberties, though. For example, he reaches to kiss Arthur’s back. Then he licks a little. And then bends his fingers carefully.  
  
“Ah,” Arthur says, not very articulately, “I think we should… get the condom.”  
  
“Okay,” Eames says, his voice coming out quite shaky, but well, what can you do.  
  
He suggests Arthur that maybe he could lie on his back so Eames could look at his face, but it seems that Arthur’s visualised this part, as well. It seems that Arthur wants to be on his knees and elbows, head bent down, knees spread on the mattress. And Eames isn’t complaining, no, not at all. Maybe some other day they’ll do it so that he can have Arthur in his lap, maybe hold Arthur, and definitely see Arthur’s face when the idiot would get closer and closer and finally come all over Eames, Eames’ cock still inside of him, yeah, he would like that. Maybe some other day. Now he does what Arthur tells him to and adds just a dozen kisses.  
  
“Carefully,” Arthur says, even though Eames is being careful, he’s sliding in so goddamn slow that it’s breaking his brain or something, “carefully, just… _ yeah. _”  
  
“Alright?”  
  
“Yeah. Stay still.”  
  
Oh, fucking hell. Eames’ got to breathe. He’s got to breathe. And maybe he should think about something else. Traffic. Nuclear war. Suits -  
  
Oh, _ shit _.  
  
“Now,” Arthur says, “but slowly, it’s been a while and – _ oh. _”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Just -,” Arthur says and then draws another shaky breath. “Just keep going.”  
  
Eames improvises a little in the end.

  
  
**

Arthur gets restless quite soon.  
  
“Where’re you going?” Eames asks, when Arthur wriggles free from under his arm and climbs out of the bed. Arthur’s ass really looks nice, but that wasn’t a surprise, was it? He’s stared at Arthur’s ass before, at jobs, but subtly, because he’s a professional. “Come back.”  
  
“I need water,” Arthur says, pausing at the doorway.  
  
“But you’ll come back.”  
  
“I think I should take a shower.”  
  
“Okay,” Eames says and rolls onto his back. “But after that, you’ll come back.”  
  
“I just -,” Arthur glances at him and then looks away, the poor bastard. He looks kind of happy though, besides looking nervous. He looks like someone just fucked him through the mattress but, you know, nicely. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”  
  
“Don’t you have this planned?” Eames asks as kindly as he can.  
  
Arthur just stares at him. “No.”  
  
“Well, I’ll tell you. You should drink water and take a quick shower and then, if you want to, you can come back to bed. I’ll be here. We could cuddle. You can be the big spoon or the small spoon or any kind of a spoon you like. We can kiss, or if you don’t want to now that you’ve got your balls emptied, you don’t have to. I’ve had people ditch me after they’ve had their wicked ways with me before.”  
  
Arthur frowns. “You’d be happy if I told you that this was one kind of a thing and that I don’t want to kiss you anymore.”  
  
“No,” Eames says, “no, I wouldn’t be _ happy _, and I’d probably follow you around and look at you like you had just kicked me in the heart and whine a little. Manly, of course. But I’d get over it eventually.”  
  
“But you don’t want that.”  
  
“No, I don’t want that.”  
  
He can see Arthur swallow. “Eames, what do you want?”  
  
“I don’t know exactly,” he says, “I haven’t written anything down yet. If I had a document about my wishes, I would certainly let you read it. Even though it might be slightly pornographic. But I guess what I want is to cuddle and then take you on a date.”  
  
Arthur looks like he’s trying not to smile, the idiot. “On a date?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“With me?”  
  
“Yeah. With you.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Arthur stares at him for a few seconds and then clears his throat. “I’ll be right back.”

  


**

**

When the doorbell rings, Eames is quite busy trying to show Arthur how he likes his blow jobs. It’s not like Arthur isn’t brilliant at it already, because how could he not be? When Arthur was at it, Eames had to keep his eyes closed because the look of concentration on Arthur’s perfect little face was just too much. He’s seen Arthur look like that a hundred times, but usually Arthur’s been thinking about work, timelines and numbers and figures, and not about Eames’ cock. But afterwards, when Eames had come – sooner than he would’ve wanted to but not as soon as he had been afraid he might – Arthur had kept asking all those questions. Had it been good? Yeah, of course, was Arthur _ deaf and blind? _ But, was there something Arthur could have done better? Was there any specific technic Eames enjoyed and Arthur could learn? Any tricks? Anything at all? Finally, Eames had figured that the easiest way to shut Arthur up was to promise to teach him them all, the tricks. It’s not like Eames actually knows any tricks, but Arthur doesn’t need to know that. Anyway, Arthur’s been a bit busy trying to breathe and tugging Eames’ hair.  
  
_So, _ when the doorbell rings, Eames has Arthur’s cock in his mouth. He’s not finished breaking Arthur apart yet. Whoever the fuck is ringing the doorbell may very well wait a little. But of course, Arthur jumps at the sound and pushes Eames back a little from the shoulders. _ Shit. _ Eames tries to catch his breath, but Arthur’s already on his feet, walking a circle and looking extremely stressed despite still being hard.  
  
“Darling,” Eames says and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “just go to the bathroom. Take the gun with you. I’ll see who it is.”  
  
“No one should know we’re staying here,” Arthur says, “no one but Ariadne, and she’s not coming until Wednesday.”  
  
Eames opens his mouth and then closes it. He’s about to tell Arthur that it _ is _Wednesday, but then Arthur seems to figure it out on his own.  
  
“Shit. _ Shit. _ That’s just –“  
  
“The good news is, you don’t have to bring the gun,” Eames says. “But you might want to take your trousers. I’ll keep Ariadne busy for a while so you can jerk off.”  
  
“I’m not going to –“  
  
“Well, you can think about death and misery in there and wait for it to pass if you want to,” Eames says, already walking to the door, “but I’m going to let Ariadne in before she shoots the lock. I hear she’s got a gun these days.”  
  
“Fucking hell,” Arthur says and disappears into the bathroom.  
  
It is, indeed, Ariadne, who’s standing in the corridor. Eames manages to open the door only half-way until Ariadne rushes past him, walks straight to the kitchen and starts going over the content of the fridge, which isn’t impressive. He and Arthur have been quite busy doing other things than buying groceries for the past few days.   
  
“I’ve got everything ready,” Ariadne says, frowning at the fridge. “You could try it tomorrow. It’s pretty simple, just a hotel where the mark’s supposed to be waiting for his wife, I mean, you, Eames. Are we still planning to do the job next week? Because I told Mary I’d be back so that I can go to her brother’s wedding.”  
  
“Actually,” Eames says, “Arthur and I might be running just a little bit late.”  
  
Ariadne glances at him over his shoulder. “_Arthur _is running late?”  
  
“Hey,” Eames says, “I’m good with deadlines, too.”  
  
“Yeah,” Ariadne says slowly, “but you don’t get off on them. Anyway, this is important for Mary, so it’s important for me as well. It’s the first time I’m going to meet her family. Terrifying but, you know, in a good way. I hear her dad is fine about us but her mom is still a bit awkward. I hope it goes fine anyway. You should tell Arthur – wait, where’s Arthur?”  
  
“I’m right here,” Arthur says, coming to the kitchen.  
  
Eames bites his lip. It’s painfully obvious that Arthur’s trying very hard to look like they weren’t just having sex.  
  
“Why are you flushed?” Ariadne asks, sitting onto the counter and beginning to eat chocolate biscuits Arthur had probably hidden, because it’s not like Eames has seen them before.  
  
“I’m not flushed,” Arthur says.  
  
“Your t-shirt is inside out.”  
  
“No, it’s not,” Arthur says and then takes a glance at it. “Shit.”  
  
“And you’re late with your research,” Ariadne says, “and you look happy. That’s weird. Almost like –“  
  
Eames clears his throat. Arthur takes a deep breath.  
  
“Oh,” Ariadne says, “_ oh, _what were you doing just now? It took you an awfully long time to answer the door.”  
  
“Nothing,” Arthur says. “Absolutely nothing.”  
  
Ariadne’s grin is pretty wide. “I’m going to have to let Yusuf know. We’ve been talking about this.”  
  
“You have?” Eames asks and then, when Arthur’s elbow pokes him at his arm. “About what?”  
  
“I’m very happy for you, but please don’t give me too many details,” Ariadne says and puts the box of chocolate biscuits aside. It’s apparently empty. “Don’t you have anything to eat?”


End file.
